Welcome Home
by TheUniverseIsRarelySoLazy
Summary: John returns home.


Everything was soft and warm. Everything felt alright.

John didn't dare move a muscle, even though his body longed to be stretched, just after waking up. It would be so easy to move his fingers, slowly shaking off the sleep. Or move the head to a more comfortable position after his neck had been in the same, weird position all night, feeling oh so stiff.

But he felt so peaceful, so calm. It would be a waste.

Carefully, without opening his eyes, he tried to make sense of his whereabouts. The chair, in which depths he was lost and entirely comfortable was not high above the ground, so his legs were stretched out on the ground. The weight on top of him seemed to be a blanket, thick and fluffy. He was using one of his arms as pillow against the armrest.

The air smelled of old wood, cold smoke and… disinfectant?

The realisation hit him suddenly, but not hard enough to make him move. He allowed the sleepy haze in his head to lift just enough, to be be able to filter some sounds. It couldn't be… why would he be…?

John heard cars driving by, people talking, all dampened by closed windows and drawn curtains. Somewhere in the distance, he could barely make out a police siren. For a while, there was nothing but the life of London as background noise and his own, deep and relaxed breath. But even before he heard metal scratching on glass and the familiar mechanical noise of the microscope lenses changing, it was quite clear for him that he was back at 221b Baker Street.

For the first time since waking up, he tensed. Eyes opening slowly, blinking into the twilight of the room. Was it that early or late? Maybe it was rainy. Maybe the curtains didn't let in all the light. He couldn't tell.

There was indeed a blanket draped over him, even neatly folded around his legs, almost like a sleeping bag. He couldn't remember doing so… in fact, he couldn't remember anything that had happened last… night? Yesterday?

He stirred, removing the arm under his head and getting into a more comfortable position. The sounds of the microscope faded, but was replaced by soft noises of different glasses being moved around.

John was at Baker Street. And he was not alone. That much was clear. He hadn't been back for weeks. Only a few times during the last months. He had thought nothing would change after his marriage, but deep down, he had known that his life was now on a different path. Or so he had thought. Frankly, the last year hadn't been all that normal - far from it.

Before thinking about why he was in the current situation, he took a moment to think about the steps that led up to it. Especially since the flat was still quiet and no one seemed to have realised his awakening.

The marriage was something he had planned. Something he had owed Mary. He had been saved by her in his darkest hour. Sherlocks return didn't change the terror John had been going through while he was gone. Dead. And when John had finally summoned up the courage to ask Mary the big question, Sherlock - once again - had turned his life upside down.

Then the revelation of Marys betrayal. He had just about forgiven Sherlock for the emotional torture he had endured, just to have his heart broken again by the next trusted person. But he wasn't going to let Mary down. He had loved her, after all. And the child. He wasn't going to let down the child, either. John Watson was not that type of person.

It was summer now. The child had been born two weeks ago. A girl.

Not named Sherlock, though… he thought and had to suppress a giggle.

The sounds from the kitchen stopped. John froze. No. He wasn't ready yet. He still hadn't figured out why he was back in his old chair. Hell, he didn't even know his chair was back in the flat. As if his flatmate had read his thoughts, the busy clinking of glass and scraping at unidentifiable objects resumed.

John relaxed. The child appeared in front of his minds eye.

He felt bad, thinking back. So bad. It didn't matter that he was right in the end. He had struggled for months. He had found it in his heart to let Mary back into his life. He had supported her all this time. Then the child was born and from the first moment on, the doubts had been in the back of his head. Always there. Silently waiting. Every time he had looked at the child.

One thing led to another. Johns thoughts finally returned to his present situation. Or rather to yesterday. He had secretly done a paternity test. The results had been in yesterday afternoon.

John was not the father.

He had quietly thanked the doctor, left his office. Went home. Mary was out, thankfully. He had grabbed the bag, he had long since forgotten, the one he had hoped he'd never need. The one with the neatly folded clothes. Just perfect to leave.

He didn't even know where to go. He just wanted to be gone. Away. Away from everything. Too much. Too much. His heart ached. He felt a physical pain in his shoulder. In his leg. But he forced his body to use the leg normally. Even though it hurt like a stab with a knife each step. It was the only thing that kept him thinking clearly. At least for a while.

A few hours later, he was drunk out of his mind. As he came to, he was sitting in front of his old home at 221b Baker Street. A short chuckle. Of course his drunk body would remember where to go. But he made no attempt to knock on the door. He had wanted to be alone. He wanted no one to talk to. Just be alone… for a while… until it stopped hurting so damn hard.

Someone must've found him during the night. There was no other explanation as to how he ended up in his old chair. The smoke scent in the air suggested that the fireplace had been burning at some time. The blanket suggested that someone had took care of him. Only now did John spot his bag, next to Sherlocks chair, on the floor.

Sherlock.

"... Sherlock?" he tried, cautiously, his voice rough, the head aching at the first loud sound since he woke up.

The busy noises from the kitchen ceded all together. He heard a chair being dragged over the floor. Slow, carefully placed footsteps. They stopped behind his chair. John didn't dare turn around. He didn't know why.

"John," Sherlock said. A matter of fact. No pity, no sadness in his voice. Just to acknowledge Johns presence.

John felt strange at hearing his name. Here. From Sherlocks lips. Back… home?

"I… how did I…?"

"You were sleeping on the street, John. Anyone could've robbed you. Mrs. Hudson wouldn't let me hear the end of it, had I left you outside."

"So I was, huh?"

"Yes. I shouldn't be the one to remind you that sleeping on the street isn't a good idea, even in summer."

"Yeah. So I figured."

"Hm."

John waited. Where was the question? Why did you sleep on the street John? Why were you in front of my flat in the middle of the night? Why weren't you with your wife and newborn child? Why did you have a bag with you?

John waited. But there was no question. Of course. Sherlock wouldn't ask. He didn't need to ask. John was certain he knew. It should have bothered him more, he thought. But John had no desire talking about it right now, so the silent understanding suited him perfectly.

Slowly stretching, he righted himself up to a more sensible sitting position within the chair. Letting his neck crack by moving it around. A big sigh escaped him. And then there were Sherlocks hands, moving to his shoulders. Before John could say anything, they started softly massaging the muscles in his neck, sore from being held in a more than suboptimal position all night.

No words were necessary. He was entirely too comfortable to break the moment by saying anything. And Sherlock seemed perfectly okay to indulge him. When John had just about melted into the chair, he felt his eyes drooping again and slid right back into a light sleep.

It was dark when he opened his eyes again. This time he only took a little moment to realise where he was. Night, huh? Slept all day, apparently. But it didn't matter now. John was not ready to leave the flat, anyway. He was not ready to go anywhere, for that matter.

Baker Street was quiet. Silent even. Sherlock didn't seem to be around, the light was out.

Well, John was well rested now. He was on his feet after carefully stretching various parts of his body. Moving his head around, he rubbed on some muscles in his neck, immediately freezing as the memories flooded back in. Sherlocks hands were…

No. He shook his head, removing the hand from his neck, both his own and the one in his memory. Nonsense. With a spring in his step, that was entirely too livevly, he all but jumped into the kitchen. Tea. Yeah. Tea would be nice right now. Not like he had anything else to do.

The water took an eternity to boil. John hadn't turned on the light yet. But he found his way around the kitchen without even looking. After all this time, everything was still where he remembered. It wasn't all that surprising really. He had found Sherlock to be a creature of habit, at least in his daily life. More out of necessity, really. Sherlock was always so lost in thought during the day, case or no case, that he couldn't be bothered to rearrange anything in his flat. Anything had to be at its place, so it could be found. That didn't mean the flat was well organised or even cleaned up. You had to understand how Sherlocks mind worked, made connections, if you wanted to be able to find anything.

But that wasn't even what John was thinking about. He stared at the spot where he had found the little tin, filled with his favourite tea. A blend of Assam and Darjeeling. Sherlock sneered at it, calling it an unholy union. But there it was, right where it had always been. And it smelled fresh. Had Sherlock gone out and bought some while he was sleeping? But how had he known that John would… Ah, a stupid thought. John had always brewed a cup of his favourite tea after waking up. He had once said that he felt right at home drinking it. He had even imported it to Afghanistan through all of his service years.

Yeah, he had said that. But that was right after he had moved in. Hell, that was ages ago...

John brewed his tea. Only to realise he had filled two cups. Then he realised he had thought about Sherlock the whole time. He shook his head again. Well, it was to be expected, wasn't it? Now that he was back at Baker Street. And those hands…

"John?"

The doctor jerked out of shock and knocked over his tea cup. The tea was still hot and clung to his fingers.

"Ouch. Shit. Ah…"

"John?" he heard Sherlock say again, this time more concerned.

John continued to curse under his breath. He hadn't heard the other man returning to the flat while he was lost in thought. The light flickered on, but it was a gentle, warm glow, which only hurt in his eyes for a few seconds.

"John, what are you doing?"

"Pouring tea over my hands in the dark. What do you think?"

"It doesn't take my genius to find out that that's a lie."

Sherlock quickly moved over to the kitchen and grabbed Johns hand, dragging him to the sink in one swift motion. Seconds later, cold water was running over Johns fingers. He sighed from the pain relief delivered by the icy steam.

"Stay there," Sherlock ordered.

John nodded. "Sorry about the table."

"I've spilled some acid on it last week. I think it'll survive a bit of tea."

"It was rather hot."

"You're not suggesting I put the tabletop under cold water, as well?"

Shelocks straight face made John laugh out loud. The detective turned around and busied himself with cleaning up the spillage, hiding his face. As the laughter receded, John focussed on his friend again. Was that a smile on his face?

But as Sherlock turned back around, his face was not smiling, but rather a strange mixture of concern and ridicule. Well, John had been brewing tea in the dark, after all, so he had to take some jokes, he thought. The detective turned off the water and took a careful look at Johns hand, turning it around between his long fingers.

"Doesn't seem all that bad," he mumbled. "What does the doctor think?"

"The doctor thinks that this was a terrible waste of perfectly good tea."

"There's another cup."

"That's yours."

Sherlock hesitated for a second. "Mine?"

"Yeah, I made two cups without thinking… really…"

"I hate that mixture you call tea. You take it."

"I thought as much," John shrugged and grabbed the cup with his unharmed hand. He took a sip and then looked at Sherlock again. "But if you hate it, why would you have it here?"

"You drink it after waking up. So it has to be here, in case you wake up."

"I haven't been waking up in this flat for a long time."

"But now you have."

"So you went out and bought some?"

"Not… exactly."

"But it was fresh."

"I kept restocking it… just in case."

"In case of me, waking up here?"

"...yes."

"Hum…," John took another sip and nodded, more to himself. Leaving Sherlock in the kitchen, he slowly walked back to the sitting room area and eyed his bag. Then he turned back around. Sherlock hadn't moved.

"Thank you, " John said and smiled.

"What for?"

"I don't know. Picking me off the street? Letting me sleep here? The tea? Pick one. Pick all, if you like."

Sherlock didn't answer, but nodded, a slight smile on his lips.

And that was that. After all these months, this was all they needed to understand each other. A nod and a smile. How simple it was, John thought. How natural. How could he have ever left?

Well, Sherlock playing dead had played a major role in it all. It was not the first time John wondered how everything might've gone if his friend had never been forced to go away. To break Johns heart…

But here he was. Utterly broken, time and time again. Broken by war, broken by the death of his closest friend, broken by the repeated betrayal of his wife, who he had chosen to trust again. But at the same time, feeling strangely at peace.

"I suppose you'd want to know what happened," John continued and put the tea cup down on Sherlocks desk, leaning against it.

"If you want to talk about it."

"It's not like being quiet will change anything."

"You don't have to talk. I know pretty much everything."

"What gave it away? My state last night? The bag? The dirt on my shoes? The smell of my shampoo?"

"Nothing so complex."

"Oh god, I don't talk in my sleep, do I?"

"No, but you seem to forget a lot of things when you're drunk."

John grabbed the edge of Sherlocks desk and stared at him, questioning. A little afraid.

"Please tell me what I did. What I said. No, please don't tell me. I don't want another embarassing memory to add to my head cinema to play over and over again. I have entirely enough of those."

"It's not that bad," Sherlock actually giggled at Johns reaction. "How do you think I found you on my doorstep in the middle of the night?"

"Well, did I knock? I thought I didn't."

"And you're right there. Not at the door, at least. You did knock in some sense, though," Sherlock pulled his cell phone from the shirt pocket. "I received a message in the middle of the night."

John walked over to Sherlock and looked at the screen, as the detective made no attempt to read it out loud. He braced himself to endure the embarassment of words written under alcohol influence.

**_It's not mine. I want to go home. Please let me come home. JW_**

John felt his cheeks redden and quickly moved away again. He stepped over to where his jacket was lying, which was incidentally on Sherlocks chair. Removing his own cell phone from the jacket pocket, he could confirm that the message had indeed been sent from his phone.

Just as he wanted to turn around to apologise, his phone beeped. A message. From Sherlock? But he was right here. What could he…?

But then Johns mouth curved into a smile.

**_Welcome home. SH_**


End file.
